End
by hermetcrab
Summary: The Joker's worst nightmare. Warning: character death. Slash if you squint


He'd lost count on how long he'd been running. It felt like days, years, life times. The throbbing of blood in his head beat to one sound only.

_bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats_

A giggle of excitement bubbled over his lips every now and then. An irrepressibly occurrence. It doesn't matter. It gets under _his_ skin so. Why even try and stop?

The rain had caused the streets to become wet and _slippery_ which caused him to fall on several occasions. Unavoidable. He could not concentrate on minor, unimportant things like balance now. Not when there were other things to concentrate on. Not when he was so close.

After so long.

_bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats_

Locked away in that cell. For how long this time? It didn't matter. _He_ would know. Maybe he should ask him. When he sees him again.

_bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats_

Not far now. He knows these streets like the back of his hand. Although, that changes quite a lot and he can't always recognise it. Well, he knows these streets like he knows his _bats_.

_bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats_

He's coming up to it now. The place to see him. Where the other little meeting was taking place. Hardly a meeting of minds, but he knew it would tempt bats out. How could he not come? He would be there.

_BATS BATS BATS BATS BATS BATS BATS BATS BATS BATS BATS BATS_

He turned the corner now and he was there. A skeleton of a house. Just outside of his city but close enough that it still counts. It was still _theirs_.

Another giggle. Easy now. Don't want to give the game away. Or do you? Do you want to let him know in advance? Let it sink in enough to let him plan? Let it fester.

No. no no no no. Need to see it. Need to see what he does. The moment he _knows_.

_bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats_

But something's… different. Wrong perhaps. The suits are gathered outside the house. The dregs of the mob. Collected like rats. Looking. Looking at what? All clustered together. The glint of metal guns doesn't go unnoticed. How piteously predictable they are.

They need to be inside to bring him out. Do their little meeting. They need to get him here. Not just…standing…looking.

He lets out another giggle, then a gravely cough. To let them know.

A shift. A tightness of the group. It gives him a clearer view of the new Head Honchos. Who is it this week? Ah. A couple of vaguely familiar faces. Unimportant. They're all the same anyway.

Oh, they do look scared. Worried? Perhaps. No, definitely. Defiantly worried. And scared. Fucking petrified.

He grins a grin that stretched both and strolls up to them. He will allow a minute for explanations before things get ugly. And bloody. Because he is in a good mood. He's seeing his bats tonight.

_bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats_

He notes what one of the suits is holding. A hollowed out, circular orb of black that swept into two points.

His eyes shift down, to where all the nervous looks seem to shift. On a hunched bundle on the floor.

_bats bats bats bats bats _–

A pause.

A black bundle twisted and shaped like a man and covered in an almost blanket.

He noticed the spirals of red mixing with the rain pooled beside it.

Phrases like 'ambush', 'fall', 'bullet', 'unavoidable' and "better for all of us" are snatched up from unknown sources. Then…

Nothing. White noise. But then again, white noise is noise. This noise was noiseless. The white would only contaminate the nothingness.

Idiots, morons, fucking criminal stupid!

_bats…bats…bats…bats…_

It starts up again faintly; until it becomes so loud he thought it would split open his head.

__

A liquid gurgle of a scream before the first one is down.

Throat slit by knife number four kept in the vest pocket. The next three go down the same.

A piece of thick metal piping is found and two get their heads bashed in.

Most run. The ones that don't end up in a murky heap on the ground.

The lifeless bodies are beaten into a bloody, unrecognisable mass.

He swings the piping down over and over. Blood has splattered on his clothes and face.

He stops, panting ragged breathes that rack his whole body. He swings around looking for the next one. He's alone by the derelict house with a pile of bodies.

It was supposed to be the place they were reunited. Now it was just a mass grave.

He lets his arms hang lifelessly beside him, pipe slipping to fall with a spatter on the floor. He's trembling. The anger that had coursed though him subsided into deep-rooted exhaustion, which seeps into his very bones. He gazed down at the crumpled body below him, untouched by the others.

His eyes travelled up the armoured plated legs, strong and resilient. Impenetrable. The patterns of the plates were entrancing. He followed them with his eyes. He'd never had such a good look before.

The torso was folded in black material that clung to it like a suctions due to the rain. The damp material made the cloth look shiny and textured, like leathery wings. He chuckled to himself. One arm was tangled up in it, as if seeking asylum. The other twisted under the body. Probably crushed.

The cowl lay by it from where is had fallen. Hollow and pointless now. The eyes were carved out and beneath the nose, a gaping hole.

His knees gave way and he sank down next to it, trousers and coat soaking in rain, gore and mud, and gently picked it up. He caressed it like a lover, studying it, then finally turned his gaze to the other face.

It was a stark contrast to the constant black. The pale flesh stood out stark white. It clung over sharp cheekbones and wrapped over parted lips. Rivets of watery black ran down from the dark make up covering the closed eyes, mixing with the other raindrops. They looked like poisoned tears.

The raven hair jutted out in damp clumps, brushing over the forehead, leaking more droplets down the sweeping cheeks and the curve of the perfectly crafted nose. It may have been a lighter colour dry, but now it blended with the rest. All but the face.

It was wrong. All wrong.

He knew that face. Knew it's owner.

It wasn't the bats. Not even close.

The worst kind of man. Weak and plotting. Just like the rest.

Not his bats.

He closed his eyes and listened, fingers still clutching to the cowl. The skull of his only.

There was no chant. No echo of a name.

The face below had erased it.

He opened his eyes and stared down at it again. His face was a blank mask of impassiveness.

He pulled off one glove with his teeth, the other clinging to cowl, and ventured near the empty face.

A finger hovered just above the skin, before ghosting the soft surface. The coolness of it numbed all sense that might come off it, so he pushed in harder.

His finger made a dent in the skin that filled with shadow.

It felt just like his own. Maybe softer. No scars ripping or distorting the skin. Not here at least.

He knew for a fact there would be scars littering his body. Ones he had put there. With knives and nails and guns and teeth and jokes and laughter and bombs and gasoline.

He removed the finger. The nail had left a crescent dent in the skin. Like a smile.

He stared at the face. It almost reflected his own at present. Just as inexpressive, except he had eyes closed. He never did get the joke.

He turned his head horizontal so he could look at him from the same angle.

They both covered their eyes in black. How funny he had never thought before…

He reached up again as traced the smudged black covering one eye. The eyeball felt round and movable under his touch.

He smeared the black all the way down the swooping cheek, down the sharp jaw line and the long neck, to the join of the suit.

It was sharp and rigid. He traced it, too.

This was where bat became man.

But it wasn't like that was it? This was all the same. It was all just one whole.

One bat. One man.

_bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats bats_

He let the cowl tumble out of his hand. He reached down to cup beneath the head, sliding his fingers to lace through the sopping hair, and turned it to fully face him.

He rain continued to drip down on the upturned head. He stared down at it.

He breathed in a gasping breath. Not even realising that he had stopped.

It felt like he hadn't in a long time.

He wished it would stop altogether.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to the white stretch of the forehead. He closed his eyes and listen to the thrumming of _bats, _lips curling,looking forward to the red smile that would be stained onto the bats forehead.


End file.
